Baseball: Life on fringe of major leagues is not easy street

Twenty-four players had spilled out into the warm Pennsylvania night. Only Heath Bell, minor league reliever and three-time All-Star in the big leagues, remained late Monday at PNC Field, some 90 minutes after the Yankees' Class AAA affiliate lost to Pawtucket.

An impatient clubhouse attendant vacuumed around Bell — still wearing his Scranton/Wilkes-Barre uniform pants and an undershirt — as he spoke at his RailRiders locker about life on the edge of professional baseball.

"Fans don't realize it's really hard, especially on the wives and the kids," said the 36-year-old former Met. "I don't feel like I'm done. And my 10-year-old loves me playing. He loves having a dad in the big leagues."

Eighteen hours later, Bell was gone. The Yankees had released him. They were his third organization in 2014 and fifth since 2012.

This is the other side of pro baseball, the unsightly and even cruel underbelly far from the glory of championships and million-dollar contracts.

For every rookie who realizes his dream of reaching the big leagues, there is another who loses his job and faces the netherworld of the minors. For every veteran who makes his triumphant return from injury or release, there's a teammate facing the long climb back to the majors — or the end of his career.

Most big-leaguers face this reality at some point in their careers — especially pitchers, who tend to get shuffled in and out more than position players — while clawing to remain in the game.

"It is tough," said RailRiders reliever Preston Claiborne, 26, who has been called up and demoted by the Yankees twice this season. "Guys who don't learn how to deal with it don't stay around long."

This is not just about their jobs and careers. Every time a player is demoted, released or traded, his entire life is uprooted in a torrent of emotional, professional, financial and geographical upheaval.

"Literally everything" gets caught up in it, said RailRiders reliever Shane Greene, 25. The Yankees promoted and demoted him three times in April alone. "Everything."

It is the plight of young players like Greene, who are trying to carve a place for themselves in the big leagues. It is the plight of Class AAAA players: good enough to reach the majors, but maybe not good enough to remain.

And it is the plight of veterans such as Dana Eveland, 30, who is trying to survive another season.

The Mets left-hander has pitched for eight big-league teams and survived four trades and last season in Korea. His year in Asia was the first time he spent a season with the same team since rookie ball.

Now Eveland is pitching 3,000 miles from his wife, Ashley, and two preschool-age sons in California. Like he has most of his career, he is living in a hotel.

"I'm hoping to stay. But I'm a realist," Eveland said. "I know there's a chance that's not going to happen."

Claiborne understands.

His overstuffed gym bag sat packed on the floor beside him June 4.

His locker stood barren behind him.

There he waited in the Yankees clubhouse, alone in a room full of people.

One by one his former teammates passed him on their way to the field. Not one stopped.

They still wore pinstripes. They still were members of the major-league fraternity.

Claiborne was no longer one of them, as he was just demoted to the minors.

"In that moment, it [stinks]," he said. "I can't sit there and can't get in their way. They still have to prepare for a game."

Life on the edge of the game sends ripples through players' families as well.

Demotions "can be harder on them than it is on me," said RailRiders reliever Matt Daley, 32, a former Colorado Rockie and Yankee whose wife is pregnant with their first child. "They feel the same exact thing that I'm feeling."

Bell's four kids — ages 4 to 16 — "rarely ever see me" during the season since they are rooted in California.

Eveland admits surviving in the game became harder since the birth of his children.

He missed son Asher's second birthday on Monday. And he missed his birth, instead watching on Skype from Baltimore when he was pitching for the Orioles.

Then there's the common misconception that all ballplayers are wealthy.

Eveland — who has made about $2 million over the past decade — has opened a baseball academy with an eye toward his post-playing days.

"There's not a whole lot of money to be made in the minor leagues," he said. "I have to look toward our future."

Greene's career salary adds up to the low six figures, yet "people assume you're a millionaire," he said.

But still they press on, chasing their boyhood dreams.

"The upside of this life is so incredible that people are willing to go all in and do it," Eveland said. "This is the best job in the world."

That is why Bell keeps fighting.

He looked around at an otherwise empty RailRiders clubhouse Monday night and shook his head.

Baseball: Life on fringe of major leagues is not easy street

Twenty-four players had spilled out into the warm Pennsylvania night. Only Heath Bell, minor league reliever and three-time All-Star in the big leagues, remained late Monday at PNC Field, some 90 minutes after the Yankees' Class AAA affiliate lost to Pawtucket.

An impatient clubhouse attendant vacuumed around Bell — still wearing his Scranton/Wilkes-Barre uniform pants and an undershirt — as he spoke at his RailRiders locker about life on the edge of professional baseball.

"Fans don't realize it's really hard, especially on the wives and the kids," said the 36-year-old former Met. "I don't feel like I'm done. And my 10-year-old loves me playing. He loves having a dad in the big leagues."

Eighteen hours later, Bell was gone. The Yankees had released him. They were his third organization in 2014 and fifth since 2012.

This is the other side of pro baseball, the unsightly and even cruel underbelly far from the glory of championships and million-dollar contracts.

For every rookie who realizes his dream of reaching the big leagues, there is another who loses his job and faces the netherworld of the minors. For every veteran who makes his triumphant return from injury or release, there's a teammate facing the long climb back to the majors — or the end of his career.

Most big-leaguers face this reality at some point in their careers — especially pitchers, who tend to get shuffled in and out more than position players — while clawing to remain in the game.

"It is tough," said RailRiders reliever Preston Claiborne, 26, who has been called up and demoted by the Yankees twice this season. "Guys who don't learn how to deal with it don't stay around long."

This is not just about their jobs and careers. Every time a player is demoted, released or traded, his entire life is uprooted in a torrent of emotional, professional, financial and geographical upheaval.

"Literally everything" gets caught up in it, said RailRiders reliever Shane Greene, 25. The Yankees promoted and demoted him three times in April alone. "Everything."

It is the plight of young players like Greene, who are trying to carve a place for themselves in the big leagues. It is the plight of Class AAAA players: good enough to reach the majors, but maybe not good enough to remain.

And it is the plight of veterans such as Dana Eveland, 30, who is trying to survive another season.

The Mets left-hander has pitched for eight big-league teams and survived four trades and last season in Korea. His year in Asia was the first time he spent a season with the same team since rookie ball.

Now Eveland is pitching 3,000 miles from his wife, Ashley, and two preschool-age sons in California. Like he has most of his career, he is living in a hotel.

"I'm hoping to stay. But I'm a realist," Eveland said. "I know there's a chance that's not going to happen."

Claiborne understands.

His overstuffed gym bag sat packed on the floor beside him June 4.

His locker stood barren behind him.

There he waited in the Yankees clubhouse, alone in a room full of people.

One by one his former teammates passed him on their way to the field. Not one stopped.

They still wore pinstripes. They still were members of the major-league fraternity.

Claiborne was no longer one of them, as he was just demoted to the minors.

"In that moment, it [stinks]," he said. "I can't sit there and can't get in their way. They still have to prepare for a game."

Life on the edge of the game sends ripples through players' families as well.

Demotions "can be harder on them than it is on me," said RailRiders reliever Matt Daley, 32, a former Colorado Rockie and Yankee whose wife is pregnant with their first child. "They feel the same exact thing that I'm feeling."

Bell's four kids — ages 4 to 16 — "rarely ever see me" during the season since they are rooted in California.

Eveland admits surviving in the game became harder since the birth of his children.

He missed son Asher's second birthday on Monday. And he missed his birth, instead watching on Skype from Baltimore when he was pitching for the Orioles.

Then there's the common misconception that all ballplayers are wealthy.

Eveland — who has made about $2 million over the past decade — has opened a baseball academy with an eye toward his post-playing days.

"There's not a whole lot of money to be made in the minor leagues," he said. "I have to look toward our future."

Greene's career salary adds up to the low six figures, yet "people assume you're a millionaire," he said.

But still they press on, chasing their boyhood dreams.

"The upside of this life is so incredible that people are willing to go all in and do it," Eveland said. "This is the best job in the world."

That is why Bell keeps fighting.

He looked around at an otherwise empty RailRiders clubhouse Monday night and shook his head.